There Really Is Life On Mars
by HolyDorksBatman
Summary: When a mind boggling murder occurs in 1970's Manchester and an even more mysterious Doctor appears hoping to give insight on the culprit, Will DI Sam Tyler and DCI Gene Hunt be able to crack the case? How Could the Doctor be involved? And who does Sam remind him of? Rated T for minor cursing, alcohol and drug references. (First fanfic! Please enjoy!)
1. Prologue: Too Much To Drink

**Chapter 1: Too much To Drink**

It had been another day on the job for DI Sam Tyler in 1973 Manchester; he and his partner, DCI Gene Hunt, had arrested yet another murderer that afternoon: a young man by the name of Lawrence Dirnt, who bludgeoned his girlfriend to death after she discovered his involvement with a gang of drug dealers. Dirnt had been shipped off to prison a few hours ago, and everyone had gathered at the pub that evening for the usual rounds of drinks. Sam was sitting at the bar, watching Gene from the other side of the room as he loudly recited the story of the chase. Showing by his slurred words and boisterous tone, he had already had too much to drink.

"An' then, when the little weasel turned the corner, I clocked 'im on the head with a brick! The bastard didn't see it comin'." He roared, taking another swig from the scotch in his hand.

The pub roared with laugher and applause, and even Sam couldn't help but chuckle. Gene might not use the right tactics when it came to policing, but at least he got the job done.

A couple beers later, Sam staggered back home to his flat. He had turned down Gene's offer to drive him due to his usual carless behavior under the influence. Thankfully, Nelson had offered the intoxicated DCI to spend the night before he did something stupid. After finally arriving at his front door, Sam shoved his hand into his front pocket, searching for his keys. As his fingers curled around the small piece of metal, he pulled it from his trousers and fumbled to get it into the lock. It took him a little while due to his shaking hands, but he managed to insert it after a few tries. He leaned on the door, pushing himself into his flat.

Not even bothering to change out of his usual leather jacket and dress shirt ensemble, Sam plopped himself face first onto his bed. The springs beneath the mattress creaked as he landed, struggling to hold his weight. Sam breathed a heavy sigh into the sheets and dozed off to sleep.

All of a sudden, a strange whirring noise came from outside the window. Surprised by the sudden break of silence, Sam shot up from his bed to face the direction of the noise.

"What the hell is that?" He exclaimed, still groggy. He stumbled over to the window to identify the source that had awoken him.

There, underneath a street lamp across from his apartment complex, was a big, blue box. A flashing lantern was illuminating from the top of it, and the words, "Police Public Call Box" were written across the top.

But what was this police box doing here? Sam had never seen it before, and it certainly hadn't been there when he had arrived home earlier. Or was it? He was too drunk to remember. Could that thing have made that noise? No, Sam thought, police boxes don't whir.

"This has got to be just a dream. It'll probably be gone in the morning." Sam mumbled to himself. He was drunk after all. Maybe he was just seeing things.

"Yeah," He told himself, "I'm just seeing things."

He crawled back onto his bed, and went back to sleep.


	2. A Peculair Man at a Peculair Crime Scene

The next morning, Sam looked out his window to find that the strange blue box from last night vanished. However, the headache from his hangover was painfully real. After taking a shower to wake himself up, he quickly dressed himself in fresh clothes before leaving for work.

Down at the station, he was greeted with the usual scene. The office was filled with disorganized desks, each covered with large stacks of paperwork, the lingering smell of recently smoked fags in the air, and the provocative pinups that were scattered around the walls and desks in the room. Ray was boasting to Chris about his recent one night stand with some bird that he met at a pub, while Annie sorted through a stack of files on her desk. As he looked at her, Sam's heat skipped a beat; she was looking absolutely gorgeous that day. Then again, she always looked gorgeous to him.

Realizing that he was staring, he took a sharp turn and went to the guv's office. As he opened the door, he found Gene Hunt passed out in his chair with his cream-loafer-clad feet propped up on the table. He snored loudly, his head lolling on his chest.

"Of course." Sam grumbled. Not in the mood to deal with the DCI's inappropriate napping, he marched up to his desk, snatched Gene's flask from the counter, and shook out its remaining contents onto the guv's head. It only took about two seconds for him to jolt out of his dreaming.

"OI! What the bloody hell do you think you're doing, Tyler?! That was the last of my rum!" he barked, snatching the flask from his hand.

"How about you quit sleeping on the job for once?" Sam hissed.

"You an' yer rules, Tyler. Bloody hell, they're gonna be the end of me one of these days."

Before Sam could retort, Phyllis popped her head into the room.

"There's been a murder downtown, and I think you boys should go take a look." She reported.

"Well of course we should go take a look!" Gene growled, "How else are we supposed to find out who did it?"

"It's just- the way the situation sounded- the whole thing seemed _odd_."

"Thank you Phyllis," Sam replied, "We'll get right on it." With that, Phyllis left the room.

"Alright Sammy-boy, let's get a move on!" the guv shouted. He had wiped most of the rum from his face with his hands, slightly pouting. He was obviously still pissed about his interrupted slumber. "Skelton! Carling! You're coming too!" he bellowed as he marched out the door.

The crime scene was odd indeed. The body was of a man, who identified as Gerald Herman, who was dead right in the middle of his living room, his face buried in the blood-stained carpet. The door had been broken down, and the place had been ransacked. Tables and chairs were overturned, many demolished, broken photo frames and stray papers ripped from books littered the floor. Whoever did this, they were looking for something, and they were frantic to find it.

However, the odd part about all of it was the large gaping hole through the man's abdomen. It went from the front of him to his back, and cleanly hollowed out everything within its 5 inch diameter. It looked almost as if someone had jammed a giant hole-puncher through him. Or at least, a red-hot hole puncher. The edges of both his skin and clothing were burnt to a crisp.

Sam bent down to examine the body closer. He reached for the man's hand, to check for some signs of a struggle or clues under his nails, when a shout came from the splintered doorway.

"Don't touch him!" The voice demanded. Sam looked up to find a man hopping into the room towards him, his brown overcoat draping out behind him. He squatted down next to Sam, and pulled a small device from the inside of his coat.

"Alrighty, let's have a look." He muttered to himself. He flicked a switch on the device, and its tip began to glow blue and emit a sort of buzzing hum.

After thoroughly running his device above the dead man's peculiar wound, the stranger leaned back to sit on his rear, and ran a hand through his spiky brown hair.

"Fascinating. Absolutely fascinating."

Sam studied the man. He looked about his age, give or take a few years, and wore a brown suit under his overcoat. A pair of white trainers adorned is feet.

Noticing that he was staring, the stranger turned to Sam.

"Oh! Look at me, barging in here without any introduction. My name's the Doctor." He stated cheerfully, flashing a cheeky smile. "And you are?"

"T-Tyler," Sam stuttered, it suddenly registering that he was being spoken to, "DI Tyler."

"Ah yes, of course! Pleased to meet you, Mr. Tyler!" the Doctor replied, extending a hand. Sam shook it, and grinned back.

"Oi! Spaceman! You can't just go running off like that!" Appearing at the broken doorway was a woman, with fire-red hair and an angered expression on her face.

The Doctor popped to his feet. "Donna! Ah, you made it! Mr. Tyler, this is my good friend, Donna Noble."

Before Sam could say another word, Gene strutted into the room, alerted by all the commotion.

"Oi! Are you reporters? Piss of, I'm not saying shite." He barked. Gene absolutely hated reporters. They got in the way of his job all the time.

"Reporters?" The Doctor questioned, glancing to Donna, then Gene, and then Sam, "Us? Naw, I'm John Smith, I go by the name 'The Doctor', and this is my partner, Donna Noble. We're investigators from Cardiff." The Doctor flashed an ID card at the guv.

Brow furrowing in aggravation, the guv growled, "Alright, so you're not reporters. I've got no bloody idea as to why you're here from Cardiff in _my_ city, but if you think for one damn second that I'm going to just let you waltz into _my_ crime scene, you'd better think twice, Twinkle Toes."

The Doctor turned back to Donna. "Yes, of course. We'll take our leave now." He nodded; Dona nodded back in reply. He stuck his open hand out to Gene. "It was nice to meet you Mr…"

"Hunt," Gene interjected, "DCI Gene Hunt." He pulled one of his many flasks from his coat pocket and tipped its contents into his mouth, glaring the Doctor right in the eyes. Making no notion to shake his hand, the guv turned and left the room.

"He's not the friendliest bloke, now is he?" Donna muttered sarcastically.

The Doctor retracted his hand and shoved it into the pocket of his overcoat. "It was nice meeting you, Detective Inspector." He smiled. Sam grinned back.

"It was nice to meet you too, Mr. Smith."

"Please, call me the Doctor."

"But, Doctor who?" Sam questioned. Who would want to be called that, anyway? He was an investigator, not a medical man.

"Just the Doctor." He replied, flashing another toothy grin.

"Er, alright. See you later, Doctor."

And with that, the strange man and his redheaded friend left the crime scene.


End file.
